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Ancient  Poetry 

— BY — 

J.  EDWARD  BOYD,B.B.B. 


SIXTH  EDITION 


Revised  and  Modernized  by 

J.EDWARD  BOYD.B.  B,  B. 

Professor  of  Trunkology,  Graduate  of  Sing 

Sing,  and  Lecturer  on  How  to  Rope  a 

Trunk  and  Honswogle 

the  Owner 

ALSO 

His  VIEWS  ON  POETRY 

ANCIENT    AND    MODERN 


FIFTH    EDITION 


ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


BERKELEY,    CAL. 
1905 


Entered  at  the  Post-office  as  first-class 
matter.      Well,  I  should  say  so. 


PREFACE 


In  answer  to  a  lot  of  feeble-minded 
friends  I  have  been  compelled  to  issue 
another  edition  of  this  magnificent  work. 
It  has  been  not  only  a  labor  of  love  —  but 
also  a  job  to  pay  the  printer.  With  no 
extended  remarks  I  might  add  a  few  com 
plimentary  words  I  have  received  from 
distinguished  personages. 

Simply  slumgacious—  ADAUNA  PATTI 

Shiver  my  topsails,  but  it's  better  than  lob- 
scouse  —  ADMIRAL  DEWEY 

Good  as  ten  years  in  San  Quentin  — 

JIMMY  HOPE 
What  a  nerve  Boyd  has  got  — 

HENRY  SCHELLHAUS 

The  choicest  work  in  my  paujamas  — 

AGUANAI^DO 

Enough  to  make  a   man  "look   on  the  wine 
when  it  is  red"  —  GOVERNOR.  PENNOYER 

And  thousands  of  others  —  when  I  have 
time  to  invent  them. 


766970 


Ai 


BEEKELEY'S  BOY  POET 


Berkeley  has  many  attractions,  but  none 
of  which  she  is  more  proud  of  than  our 
"Boy  Poet" — a  sweet-faced  youth  of  60 
summers — who  may  be  found  at  Berke 
ley  Station  at  all  times  of  day,  where  his 
youthful  beauty  often  attracts  the  atten 
tion  of  strangers  and  visitors.  The  fol 
lowing  lines  show  his  youthful  genius: 

How  dear  to  my  heart   are   the   scenes  of  my 

childhood, 

Of  pleasant  old  Berkeley  that  I  used  to  know, 
The  gas  tank,  the  planing  mill,  the  old  China 

wash-house, 

The  sweet-smelling   mud-holes   where   wild 
weeds  did  grow. 

The  old  corner  grocer\r  store  kept  by  Uucle  Joe, 
And  his  loud-talking  driver  who    had   such 

big  feet; 
The  old  Golden  Sheaf  where  we  bought  coffee 

and  sinkers, 
And  the  old  poky  horse-car  on  Addison  street. 

How  oft  at  the  noon  hour  when  the  whistles 

loud  did  blow 
Did  I  hasten  home  to  eat  a  cold  feed, 


As  gaily    I  'sauntered  down  this  well-beloved 

road, 

How  pleasent  to  smell  the  fragrant  tar- weed. 
But  those  bright  days  have  gone,  never  more 

to  come  again  - 
Never  more  shall   the  sidewalk  be  trod  by  my 

feet, 
Never  more  shall  I  see  the  bright  scenes  of  my 

childhood 
Or  the  poky  old  horse-car  on  Addison  street. 

How  oft  in  my  childhood  I've  "nipped"  on  the 

horse-car 
To    hear  Mr.    Morehead — How   he  did    rip, 

curse  and  swear, 
And  when  he  got  done  with  his  shouting  and 

spouting, 
He'd   say,  "You  can't   ride  unless  you  have  a 

nickel  for  fare." 
But  no  more  those  bright  days  when  the  world 

looked  so  rosy, 
This   earth  seemed   a  heaven   and     all    things 

looked  sweet, 
But  they've  faded  away,  those  bright  scenes  of 

my  childhood, 
With  the  poky  old  cars  on  Addison  street. 

Trunkology  in  Berkeley 

Was  ever  any  Expressman  sent 

To  a  house  in  town,  and  when  he  went 


Did  the  landlady  ever  fail  to  bawl — 
'Don't  YOU  put  no  scratches  on  that  wall"? 

Whenever  you  go  to  a  home  for  a  trunk 
They  certainly  imagine  that  you  are  drunk, 
For  they  never  fail  to  loudly  bawl— 
"Don't  put  no  scratches  on  that  wall." 

I've  found  it  so,  and  I'm  proud  to  say 
I've  handled  baggage  for  many  a  day; 
But  no  sooner  I've  entered  into  the  hall 
Than  they  loudly  scream,  'Don't  scratch   the 
wall.'' 

You  may  do  your  best  and  strive  to  please 
Till  your  body  is  weak  from  head  to  knees, 
And  still  some  female  loud  will  call— 
"Be  careful  how  you  mark  the  wall." 

It  would  drive  a  man  unto  strong  drink 

(When  he  is  so  tired  he  cannot  think) 

To  hear  again  the  same  old  call— 

"My  goodness,  how  you've  marked  the  wall." 

When  through  at  last,  at  home  to  rest, 
And  striving  to  do  your  level  best, 
And  tired  out,  into  bed  you  crawl 
To  dream  all  night  of  that  scratched  wall. 

This  thing  is  getting  worse  than  bad- 
It's  enough  to  drive  Expressmen  mad. 
Even  the  Sheenies  have  the  gall 
To  yell,  "Dont  from  dot  baper  took  der  vail." 


But  boys,  when  life's  moving  days  are  o'er 
And  you're  checked  right  through  to  Heaven's 

bright  shore, 

The  angels,  they  will  gently  call— 
"Come  in,  and  never  mind  the  wall." 


History  of  Poetry 

aS  the  years  swiftly  glide  by  it  is  sad 
to  note  thaf  publishers  take  un 
wonted  liberties  with  some  of  our  most 
cherished  poetry,  not  only  changing  the 
wording  but  conveying  a  totally  different 
idea  from  the  original  manuscript.  Take 
for  instance  that  grand  old  poem  "Jack 
and  Jill."  Why,  publishers  of  the  present 
day  assert  with  the  most  unblushing  ef 
frontery  that  their  errand  up  the  hill  was 
to  obtain  water,  while  it  is  \vell  known 
to  all  readers  of  ancient  history  that  the 
parents  of  Jack  and  Jill  were  accustomed 
to  "looking  on  the  wine  when  it  was 
red,"  and  it  was  no  unfrequent  thing  to 
"Rush  the  Growler"  when  they  hap 
pened  to  have  the  necessary  '  'short  bit' ' 
to  make  the  purchase  with.  Of  late  years 
8 


it  has  become  the  fashion  to  hide  the  fact 
that  the  children's  errand  was  to  pur 
chase  some  steam  beer.  While  the  writer 
cannot  deny  that  temperance  is  a  virtue, 
he  must  also  acknowledge  the  truth  of 
the  saying  of  General  Burgoyne,  on  the 
field  of  Saratoga,  when  he  uttered  the 
following  well-known  wrords,  "A  glass  of 
beer  goes  mighty  fine  on  a  hot  day;"  and 
right  here,  without  extra  cost,  I  intend 
to  favor  my  readers  with  the  true  ver 
sion  of — 

Jack  and  Jill 

Jack  and  Jill  went  up  the  hill 

To  get  some  steam  beer,  I  guess; 

Jack  fell  down  and  broke  his  crown 
While  nipping  on  Boyd's  Express. 

The  writer's  sole  idea  in  printing  this 
literary  gem  is  to  supply  a  long-felt  want, 
and  to  correct  a  growing  tendency  to 
mislead  the  rising  generation  by  publish 
ing  a  true  version  of  the  delightful  bal 
lads  of  our  childhood's  days— not  the 
mutilated  and  sawed-of  corrections  of 
these  latter-day  soi-distant  poets.  Take 


for  example  that  touching  refrain  which 
pleased  and  soothed  us  in  our  infancy — 

Mother,  may  I  go  down  to  the  beach? 
Yes,  my  darling  Bess— 

If  you  feel  too  lazy  to  walk, 
Why,  charter  BOYD'S  EXPRESS. 

Instead  of  which  some  antedeluvian 
fossil  has  transmogrified  those  pathetic 
lines  as  follows — 

Mother,  may  I  go  down  to  the  beach  ? 

Yes,  my  darling  Mag, 
If  you've  mislaid  your  bathing  suit, 

Why,  wrap  j'ourself  in  a  rag. 

And  still  another  paralyzed  poet  brings 
into  the  cold,  unfeeling  world  the  follow 
ing  melodious  mixture — 

Mother,  may  I  go  down  to  the  beach  ? 

Yes,  my  darling  Addie, 
But  if  you  get  your  tootsies  wet 

I'll  spank  your  little  paddie. 

Again ,  look  at  that  soul-stirring  poem 
of  "The  Boy  Stood  on  the  Burning 
Deck. ' '  Not  one  person  in  a  thousand  can 
recite  the  lines  correctly.  For  the  bene 
fit  of  our  numerous  patrons  we  insert  it — 
10 


Bold  Boyd  stood  on  the  burning  deck 

And  for  help  he  telephoned— 
"Oh  !  Central,  sound  the  lire  alarm, 

"Our  ship  is  burning,"  he  groaned, 
"Ring  in  an  alarm,  and  do  it  quick, 

No  other  is  on  board  her!" 
But  all  the  answer  that  he  got,  was — 

"The  line  is  out  of  order." 

Mary  Had  a  Little  Lamb 

And  still  another  mutilated  poem  comes 
•floating  over  our  brain-pan.  We  refer 
to  that  too-utterly-too-sweet  refrain  of 
"Mary  and  Her  Lamb."  The  occurrence 
took  place  during  the  Civil  War,  and  the 
following  lines  were  published  in  the 
Monthly  Review,  probably  written  by 
some  one  who  didn't  know  a  lamb  from 
a  lobster — 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb— 
The  lamb  got  in  the  pound, 

And  to  get  her  sweet  pet  out, 
Poor  Mar}-  she  was  bound. 

Her  mother  called  the  poundman  up — 
"Let  him  feed  the  lamb  some  grain," 

But  all  the  answer  she  got  was — 
"Line's  busy,  please  call  again." 


After  reading  the  foregoing  it  must  be 
a  source  of  great  pleasure  to  read  the 
original,  as  follows — 

Mary  had  a  little  lamb, 

That  lamb  it  was  a  fool, 
It  followed  her  to  camp  one  day 

Instead  of  going  to  school. 

And  as  it  passed  the  picket-line 

The  sentry  paid  no  heed, 
For  some  one  is  sure  to  gobble  him  up 

And  we'll  have  a  bully  feed. 

And  soon  a  soldier  raised  his  gun 
When  he  saw  the  welcome  sight, 

And  as  he  fired  he  shouted  out 

"We'll  have  roast  lamb  to-night." 

How  good  the  soldiers  all  did  feel 

When  they  smelt  that  mutton  stew — 

Some,  they  ate  a  big  pan  full, 
And  some  they  gobbled  two. 

"What  makes  3-0 ur  men  love  mutton  so?" 

The  people  all  did  cry, 
"Because  they're  tired  of  pork  and  beans" 

The  Colonel  did  reply. 

"It  is  too  bad,"  the  children  cried, 
For  Mary  to  lose  her  lamb," 

But  our  soldier  boj^s  did  have  a  feed 
And  she  did  n't  care  a— ham. 

12 


Royal  Entertainment 

Some  years  ago  I  was  invited  to  a 
musical  entertainment  given  at  Windsor 
Castle,  England,  at  which  were  present 
not  only  all  the  members  of  the  royal 
family,  but  also  a  great  many  of  the  no 
bility  of  Great  Britain.  On  that  occasion 
I  read,  amid  terrific  applause,  this  touch 
ing  poem — 

Little  Bo  Peep  has  lost  her  sheep 

And  wonder  where  they  can  be  found. 
She  hunted  east,  she  hunted  west 
And  through  the  U.  C.  grounds. 

And  sad  to  say  if  it  is  true, 

It  surely  is  a  pity — 
They  say  that  Boyd  has  stole  the  sheep 

And  sold  it  in  the  city. 

And  as  an  encore  I  recited 

Old  Mother  Hnbbard  she  went  to  the  cupboard 

To  get  her  poor  dog  some  grub, 
She  fell  down  and  broke  her  neck 

63^  tripping  over  a  tub. 

"Plague  take  the  dog,"  she  madly  cried, 

"I'll  tie  him  vvith  a  rope 
And  keep  him  there  for  the  next  six  weeks 

While  I  feed  him  vvith  soft  soap." 

13 


I  shall  never  forget  the  delight  I  ex 
perienced  when  I  first  read  the  following 
touching  sonnet  by  my  old  friend  "Billy 
the  Kid."  I  felt  as  if  I  would  like  to  shake 
his  hand — and  borrow  two  bits  off  him — 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  to  himself  hath  never  said 
When  he  sees  the  pretty  girls  of  Kellogg  school. 
Don't  you  wish  you  were  younger?  you  old  fool. 

If  such  there  be,  may  he  droop  and  fade 
And  wind  up  in  marrying  an  old  maid — 
The  very  opposite  of  a  High  school  girl 
Whose  cheeks  are  roses  and  teeth  are  pearl. 


One  of  the  most  pathetic  pieces  of  po 
etic  gush  I  ever  read  is  as  follows:  To 
my  great  regret,  though  I  have  looked 
through  all  the  high-toned  college  and 
prison  libraries,  I  have  been  unable  to 
learn  the  name  of  the  author  or  to  dis 
cover  whether  he  was  insane  or  drunk 
when  he  inscribed  his  name  on  the  Roll 
of  Fame  by  writing  the  following — 

Immortal  Verse 

As  I  was  walking  in  the  U.  C.  ground 
Who  do  you  think  came  driving  round? 

14 


Just  as  the  Sophs  lined  up  to  muster — 
Along  came  BOYD,  THE  BAGGAGE  BUSTER. 

Said  I,  ''Mr.  B.  what  is  the  news? 
Now  spit  it  out  and  don't  refuse. 
People  do  say,  with  all  your  knowledge 
You  should  be  Big  Chief  of  Stanford  College. 

*' There  is  no  news,"  Bold  Boyd  replied — 
Just  jump  in  and  take  a  ride. 
How  my  wife  would  kick  if  she  could  see 
Those  girls  making  goo-goo  eyes  at  me. 

It  is  not  best  she  should  be  too  wise 
And  hear  about  those  goo-goo  eyes, 
For  how  unhappy  she  would  be 
If  she  knew  the  girls  were  in  love  with  me." 


During  the  late  successful  war  with 
Spain,  when  the  continuous  defeat  of  the 
Spanish  foes  on  land  and  sea  brought 
gloom  and  disappointment  over  the  Cas- 
tillian  court  and  people,  none  had  the 
"blues"  worse  than  the  Queen.  Every 
effort  was  made  to  cheer  and  arouse  her 
without  avail.  One  afternoon,  when  the 
court  physicians  were  consulting  on  the 
perilous  state  of  the  queen's  heajth  and 
planning  some  means  to  arouse  her,  the 

15 


young  Prince  Alfonzo  (the  queen's  only 
son)  burst  into  the  room,  crying  out — 
"O,  Mama  !  your  majesty!  I  am  a  poet!" 
The  queen  read  the  following  lines  which 
greatly  pleased  her  and,  as  the  doctors 
said,  did  her  more  good  than  two  bottles 
of  horse  medicine.  At  great  expense  I 
have  procured  a  translation  of  this  ten 
der  poem  which  is  here  inserted  without 
extra  charge — 

I  wished  to  talk  to  a  friend  one  day 
To  inquire  about  a  lady  boarder, 

But  as  quick  as  I  said  Dana  962, 

Central  said,  "That  line  is  out  of  order." 

I  went  to  telephone  to  a  friend  next  night 

And  I  was  in  a  pickle — 
I  had  nothing  but  five  frank  in  gold 

And  Central  said,  "Drop  a  nickel" 

I  ran  to  the  Queen  and  borrowed  five  cents, 

Although  it  was  pouring  rain, 
And  as  I  dropped  the  nickel  in  the  slot 

I  heard,  "Busy.    Call  again." 

I  think  the  best  thing  I  can  do 
Before  my  brain  gets  into  a  whirl, 

Is  to  buy  a  telephone  of  my  own 
And  marry  a  telephone  girl. 

16 


From  an  Unknown  Author 

I  would  do  an  act  of  injustice  to  both 
my  readers  and  the  directors  of  the  Brit 
ish  Museum  did  I  fail  to  insert  the  fol 
lowing  beautiful  poem — said  to  have  been 
written  by  Billy  Shakespeare  when  he 
had  the  delirium  tremendous — 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 
When  through  the  town  of  Berkeley  passed 
A  youth  who  dressed   not  over  nice, 
But  on  his  cap  the  strange  device — 
BOTD'S  EXPRESS. 

A  lady  went  to  the  telephone 
To  make  to  Boyd  her  wishes  known, 
And  said  "Please  give  me  Stuart  81," 
No  sooner  asked  for  than  t'was  done. 
There's  no  delay,  as  you  may  guess 
When  people  call  for  BOYD'S  EXPRESS 

I  have  never  been  able  to  positively  dis 
cover  the  name  of  the  author. 


Among  the  many  interesting  manu 
scripts  unearthed  from  the  catacombs  of 
Egypt  is  the  following  pathetic  effusion 
discovered  by  Mrs.  Carrie  Nation  while 


searching  among  the  ruins  for  traces  of 
an  Oriental  "Blind  Pig,"  and  presented 
to  the  author  by  that  eminent  lady,  the 
title  of  which  is — 


The  Wise  Men  of  Berkeley 

Said  Trustee  Brown  to  Trustee  White, 
What  ordinance  shall  we  pass   to-night? 
There'll  be  no  excitement  and  no  fun — 
No  protests  to  hear  about  street  work  done. 
We  passed  a  law  about  the  butcher  cart, 
I  heard  it  broke  Mike  Fischel's  heart. 
On  bicycle  riding  we  passed  a  law 
And  our  attorney  says  it  has  no  flaw. 
But  some  new  law  we  must  introduce 
Or  the  people  will  raise  the  very  deuce. 
I  have  it  now,  said  Trustee  Briggs, 
We'll  make  the  expressmen  move  their  rigs. 
We'll  make  a  law  to  "beat  the  band" 
And  on  Wild-cat  creek  we"ll  let  'em  stand. 
Said  Trustee  Gray,  If  I  might  speak, 
Better  move  them  on  to  Grizzly  peak. 
Said  Trustee  Payne,  What  are  they  worth? 
We  had  belter  fire  them  "off  the  earth." 
Said  Trustee  Smith,  It  would  be  well 
To  send  the  whole  derned  crowd  to 

(No  more  ink) 


18 


Flood  on  Center  Street 


One  of  the  most  soul-moving  pieces  of 
poetry  it  was  ever  my  good  fortune  to. read 
was  written  by  an  uncouth,  uneducated 
Expressman  of  Berkeley  who  actually  did 
not  seem  to  know  enough  to  steal  eggs. 

The  circumstances  were  as  follows: 
Along  in  the  early  eighties  a  gentleman 
named  B—  -  kept  a  Boys'  Boarding 
School  on  Atherton  Street.  One  day 
some  of  the  boys  got  the  idea  that  it 
would  advance  their  education  to  have  a 
"Beer  Bust,"  and  engaged  the  Express 
man  to  purchase  one  ten-gallon  keg  of 
beer  which  he  was  to  keep  at  his  home 
until  the  boys  called  for  it  in  the  evening. 

Now,  Mr.  B had   got  wind  of  the 

affair  and  lay  hidden  in  a  dark  corner 
watching  the  transaction.  As  soon  as 
the  boys  started  up  the  street  with  the 

keg,  Mr.  B rushed  out.     The  boys 

dropped    the   keg    and   ran.     Mr.— 
first  stopped  to  turn    the  faucet,  and  al 
lowing  the  beer   to  run  into  the  gutter, 

19 


started  after  them.    We  will  let  the  poeti 
cal  Expressman  finish  the  story — 

0  the  beer !  the  beautiful  beer! 

It  flowed  upon  the  sidewalk  so  bright  and  so 

clear, 
And  the  silent  stars  wept  and  the  moon  shed 

a  tear 
To  see  such  a  waste  of  the  beautiful  beer. 

As  B disappeared  I  had  the  keg  righted, 

And  srlancing  around,  not  one  of  them  sighted  , 
And  into  the  cellar  I  soon  did  disappear 
With  about  seven  gallons  of  beautiful  beer. 

Now  here's  to  old  B and  his  gay  boys  so 

frisky, 

1  hope  they'll    stear  clear  of  beer,  rum   and 

whiskey; 

But  boys,  don't  worry,  and  never  have  fear, 
For  I'll  get  away  with  your  beautiful  beer. 

Possibly  my  readers  will  feel  inclined 
to  doubt  my  words,  but  this  Expressman 
still  lives  and  is  as  handsome  as  ever. 


The  author  of  the  following  lines  is 
unknown.  Tennyson  claimed  them,  By 
ron  claimed  them,  as  .did  Aguinaldo, 
Billy  the  Kid  and  several  other  authors 


of   renown.     The  professor  hesitates    to 
give  his  views  on  so  important  a  subject. 

Who  is  this  crowd  from  Stanford  town? 
They  look  so  sad,  with  eyes  cast  down; 
From  Palo  Alto  to  play  ball 
They  come,  and  show  immaculate  gall. 
Beware!     Beware!  their  friends  all  cried — 
The  U.  C.  boys  will  "tan  your  hides." 

It  was  a  happy  crowd  came  down 
On  that  bright  day  from  Stanford  town. 
They  came  from  'Frisco  to  play  ball, 
But  met  defeat  and  feel  quite  small. 
Too  bad  !  too  bad  !     And  they  all  cried, 
The  U.  C.  boys  have  "tanned  our  hide." 

Now  Stanfordite,  don't  be  a  fool, 
But  go  way  back  to  Jordan's  school; 
Obey  your  teachers,  great  and  small — 
Don't  dream  you  ever  can  play  ball. 
Remain  at  home  at  your  country  side, 
Or  a  U.  C.  boy  will  "tan  your  hide." 

So  when  to  Stanford  back  you  go 
With  faces  sad  and  full  of  woe, 
No  flags  will  wave,  no  music  play, 
And  all  will  feel  bad  and  regret  the  day 
When  they  went  away — our  joy  and  pride — 
For  the  U.  C.  boys  did  "tan  their  hides." 


A  Great  Discovery 

While  we  have  found  many  friends  to 
help  and  encourage  us  in  our  endeavor 
to  bring  this  priceless  gem  into  the  liter 
ary  world — others  have  not  been  so  ac 
commodating. 

A  few  months  ago  we  learned  that 
there  was  in  the  U.  C.  Library  an  unpub 
lished  poem  said  to  have  been  written  by 
Napoleon  the  Great  during  his  imprison 
ment  at  St.  Helena.  On  account  of  the 
great  jealousy  of  the  English  government 
this  beautiful  lyric  was  smuggled  from 
the  island  and  finally  reached  the  U.  C. 
Library  and,  greatly  to  our  surprise,  when 
we  requested  leave  to  copy  it,  we  were 
refused,  and  told  that  ''it  could  not  leave 
the  building."  We  then  offered  to  come 
there  with  our  typewriter  and  three  bot 
tles  of  "Mile  limit"  and  treat  the  crowd. 
But  No.  We  were  informed  that  the  U. 
C.  authorities  did  not  allow  tramps  around 
the  buildings,  and  it  was  not  until  we 
brought  the  powerful  influence  of  our 
friend,  Mr.  James  Potatoes.  Professor  of 


Broomology  and  Janitor  of  North  Hall 
to  bear,  that  we  could  gain  access  to  the 
manuscript.  Professor  Potatoes  accom 
panied  us  over  to  the  Library  and  said, 
"Librarian,  by  dad,  if  ye  don't  let  my 

friend    B see  that  paper,    be  jabers 

I'll  let  your  fire  go  out."  The  threat 
was  enough.  The  venerable  document 
was  quickly  produced  and  we  here  pre 
sent  it  to  our  readers.  It  is  entitled — 


The  Poetical  Congress 

A  meeting  was  called  by  learned  men  one  day 
To  hear  the  opinions,  and  let  each  have  his  say 
To  settle  a  question  no  one  could  decide — 
Who  was  the  Boss  Poet  of  all  the  world  wide. 

The  wise  men  of  England  did  Shakespeare 

uphold, 
Until  up  spoke  a  German  with  voice  loud  and 

bold, 
Vots  der  matter,  he  said,  you  certainly  must  be 

villing 
To  admit  dare  vas  never   a  poet   like  Schilling. 

Then  up  jumped  a  Frenchman,  I'd  have  you  to 

know  it 
That  France  has  produced  full  many  a  poet: 

23 


There  was  Hugo,  Beranger  and  Monsieur 

Racine 
Whose  poetry  pleased  both  peasant  and  queen. 

Then  up  spoke  bold  Scottie  whose  face  red  did 

turn — 

Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  o'  my  freen  Robbie  Burn? 
Be  japers,  said  Pat,  not  wan  a  good  poet — 
Torn  Moore  bates  them  all  I'  have  \e  to 

know  it. 

Then  spoke  up  Ah  Sing — a  learned  Chinaman, 
You  sabe  Confucius — he  neber  play  tan, 
But  he  potry  make  velly  good,  velly  nicey — 
All  Chinamen  read  when  he  eat  he  ricey. 

Then  up  spoke  our  President,  a  man  of  great 

knowledge, 
Who  came  to  the  meeting  right  straight  from 

our  College, 
Said  he — You  poor  fellows,  have  you  never 

enjoyed 
That  beautiful  poetry  written  by  Boyd  ? 

So  pleased  were  they  when  they  heard  the  name 
And  that  Boyd  was  climbing  up  the  pillar  of 
fame, 

They  decided  at  once,  to  the  credit  of  our  nation, 
That  Boyd,  as  a  poet,  beat  the  rest  of  creation, 
And  that  none  other  his  place  could  ever  take, 
And  that  Boyd,  as  a  poet,  captured  the  cake. 

24 


So  Bevel's  the  boss  poet  of  the  whole  Yankee 

nation 
And  the  Boss  Baggage-buster  flfBerkeley  Station 


Railroad  Agent's  Nightmare 

What  means  this  look  so  forlorn  and  sad 

Which  comes  over  the  ticket  agent's  face 
As  on  the  approach  of  the  train  now  due 

At  the  window  he  takes  his  place? 
He  knows  he'll  hear  the  same  old  gag 

Which  he's  heard  both  day  and  night 
As  some  female  pokes  her  face  right  in 

And  says,  "Is  that  clock  just  right?'' 
Five  thousand  times  within  the  last  year 

The  same  old  question  has  been  sprung — 
It  has  been  asked  all  hours  of  day 

By  middle-aged,  old  and  young. 
How  oft  the  agent's  heart  feels  faint 

And  his  face  turns  pale  with  fright 
When  some  one  shoves  his  mug  right  in 

And  says,  "Is  that  clock  just  right?" 
Poor  agent,  I  know  how  bad  you  feel — 

You'd  like  to  yell  and  swear 
As  you  answer  that  question  day  after  day 

While  they  regard  you  with  a  stare. 
It's  enough  to  wear  your  patience  out 

And  you  should  yell  with  all  your  inight- 
"Yes,  damn  it,  if  you  want  to  know, 

That  clock  is  always  right." 

25       ' 


THE  TELEPHONE  GIRL 

What  is  the  matter,  my  pretty  May  ? 

You  mind  your  biz,  sir,  she  did  say; 

Don't  bother  me,  my  brain's  in  a  whirl 

Since  George  made  a  mash  on  the  telephone  girl. 

He  conies  at  night  and  stays  quite  late, 
I  bid  him  good  bye  at  the  garden  gate.    v 
Does  he  go  straight  home  ?     Ah  !  I'm  afraid 
He  has  fixed  a  date  with  the  telephone  maid , 

Oh  !  George,  Oh  !  George,    my  heart  will  break 
If  this  "Hello  girl"  you  do  not  shake. 
Is  it  true  what  I  heard  said — 
You  will  "fly  the  coop"  with  the  telephone 
maid  ? 

For  George,  you  remember  you  promised  me 
That  in  the  spring  we  wedded  should  be; 
And  I  feel  sad,  and  my  feelings  hurt 
When  you  "chew  the  rag"  with  the  telephone 
flirt. 

So  George,  take  care  and  go  straight  home, 
And  promise  me  you  no  more  will  roam, 
Or  go  down  town  and  get  too  gay 
Awalking  around  with   that  telephone  jay. 

And  George,  kiss  me,  and  tell  me  true 
That  you  will  shake  the  telephone  crew, 
And  by  my  side  you'll  be  each  night 
And  speak  no  more  to  the  telephone  fright. 

20 


The  "Vigilante  Oak"  on  Allston  Way 

Aye,  cut  it  down,  this  old  landmark, 

'Tis  but  a  relic  of  the  past, 
Though  for  ages  it  has  stood 

The  storm-king's  wintry  blast. 

What  though  it  sprang  from  mother-earth 
Ere  the  white  man  reached  this  land, 

Before  kind  earth  did  yield  its  gold 
To  the  grasping  Gringo's  hand. 

No  matter  if  an  outlaw  met  his  death 
By  Judge  Lynch 's  stern  decree — 

No  matter  if  the  court  was  held 
Beneath  the  old  oak  tree. 

No  matter  of  the  statement  made 

By  one  of  Berkeley's  sages; 
No  matter  if  the  wise  L,e  Conte 

Said,  'tis  a  relic  of  past  ages. 

Aye,  cut  it  down,  ye  ruthless  sons 

Of  Berkeley's  lovely  clime; 
Aye,  cut  it  down  and  burn  it  up — 

It  has  outlived  its  time. 

BOVD— the  Boss  Crank  of  Berkeley 


MYRTLE'S  PLAGUY  CORN 

Myrtle  had  a  little  corn 

Upon  her  little  toe 
And  every  time  that  Myrtle  stepped 

That  corn  did  hurt  her  so. 


She  let  her  ma  do  all  the  work 

And  would  not  wash  a  dish; 
And  when  mama  said.  Please  make  your  bed, 

She  boldly  said— "Go  fish." 

But  at  all  balls  and  parties  too 

She  always  could  be  found, 
And  not  a  Sunday  but  she  went 

To  the  picnic  at  Shell  Mound. 

She  wanted  to  go  to  the  fireman's  dauce — 
Still,  she  knew  she  hadn't  oughter, 

But  she  soaked  that  corn  for  two  long  hours 
In  vinegar  and  hot  water. 

But  when  she  pulled  her  slipper  on 

Upon  that  little  foot, 
She  felt  the  pain  of  that  darn  corn 

Away  down  to  the  root. 

When  her  parduer  asked  her  to  dance 

Upon  the  well-waxed  floor, 
The  plaguy  corn  did  hurt  her  so 

It  almost  made  her  roar. 

Why  do  you  make  that  awful  face  ? 

Her  pardner  he  did  say. 
You  mind  your.biz,  poor  Myrtle  said, 

And  don't  you  get  too  gay. 

The  next  dance  is  a  peach,  he  said — 

I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  a  dollar, 
But,  Jimmy  Crips!  when  Myrtle  stood  up, 

It  almost  made  her  holler. 

28 


You  should  not  wear  such  small  shoes, 

The  young  man  said  again; 
Go  screw  your  nut,  poor  Myrtle  cried— 

Your  chin  gives  me  a  pain. 

Will  you  let  me  see  that  darling  corn  ? 

Said  the  young  man,  with  a  sigh. 
Go  chase  yourself  around  the  block, 

Poor  Myrtle  did  reply. 

Now  Myrtle  goes  to  hops  no  more, 
For  she  finds  it  will  not  pay, 

She  has  turned  over  a  new  leaf 
And  joined  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 


JAPAN'S  PBOMISE 

We  are  coming,  Mr.  School  Trustee,  about 

seventy-five  or  eighty  more; 
We  are  coming,  dear  directors,  from  Japan's 

pagan  shore — 
We  are  coming  to  gay  Berkeley,  a  town  upon 

the  bay, 
WThere  a  poor  Jap  gets  free  schooling  for  which 

the  people  pay. 

Why  your  people  are  such  greenies,  we  don't 

quite  understand, 
As  to  give  free  education  to  the  Japs  from 

Japan  land; 
To  pay  all  the  taxes,  cause  them  to  toil  with 

might  and  main, 

29 


And  it  looks  as  if  the  Yankees  had  these  poor 
Japs  on  the  brain. 

But  don't  worry,  Berkeley  people,  for  we  will 

fill  your  schools, 
And  be  thankful  to  our  idols  that  the  Yankees 

are  such  fools. 
All  we  want  is  a  job  washing  dishes  night  and 

morn, 
And  if  your  short  on  taxes — why  put  your 

watch  in  pawn? 

Praise  the  gods  we've  struck  a  land  where  tbe 

people  are  such  fools 
As  to  give   to  us,  smart  Japies,  the  freedom  of 

their  schools. 
The  people  they  may  kick  when  they  come  to 

pay  the  tax, 
But  if  we  wash  their  dishes,  what  more  can 

they  ax  ? 

So  now,  good  Berkeley  people,  keep  your  piib- 

lic  schools  a  going, 
And  our  jolly  Japanese  boys  will  fill  them  to 

overflowing; 
And  if  there  is  no  room  for  the  children  of  your 

race — 
Why,  let  them  stay  at  home  and  we  will  take 

their  place. 

Written   by  the   cute    little    Jap   who 
attends  the  Berkeley  school. 

30 


RICHMOND  ON  THE  JEEMS 

A  soldier  of  Jeff.  Davis  lay  dead  drunk  at  Ball's 
Bluff, 

His  canteen  was  nearly  empty,  for  he'd  drank  a 
pile  of  stuff — 

A   comrade  was  beside  him,  and  he  too  lav- 
stretched  out, 

But  he  bent  with  pitying  glances  to  hear  what 
the  other  fellow  might  shout. 

The  drunken  hobo  staggered  as  he  took  that 

comrade's  hand, 
Saying — If  I  don't  get  off  this  jag  I  shan't  see 

my  own,  my  native  land. 
Take  a  message  to  my  home — it  is  not  as  far  as 

it  seems — 
For  I  was  born   at  Richmond — calm  Richmond 

on  the  Jeems. 

My  father  was  a  soldier,  and  often  when  a  kid. 
My  heart  felt  gay  to  hear  him  tell  of  the  awful 

things  he  did, 
And  when  he  turned  his  toes  up  and  was  planted 

'neath  the  green, 
I  let  them  take   what  else  they  would,  but  kept 

the  old  canteen. 

When  I  left  my  old  home  about  ten  months  ago 
My  ma  and  sister  Ruby  both  said  I  shouldn't  go,. 
But  I  ax'd  all  my  friends  to  think  of  me  in 

dreams, 

For  I  was  hound  to  fight  the  Yanks   upon  the 
river  Jeems. 

31 


And  his  comrade  took  another  drink  and 

quietly  he  turned  o'er, 
And,  pulling  his  cap  o'er  his  eyes,  straightway 

began  to  snore, 
Forgetful  of  war's  alarms  or  love's  delightful 

dreams — 
He  dreamt  that  Lee  had  licked  the  Yanks  upon 

the  river  Jeems. 

But  soon  the  Yanks  advanced  their  lines  and 

the  two  were  gathered  in 
And  sent  to  Johnson's  Island  without  a  drop 

of  gin. 

Then  said  No.  i  to  No.  2,  Oh!  dear,  how  hard  it 

seems, 
I  wish  I  was  back  in  Richmond,  upon  the  river 

Jeems. 


WELCOME  TO  UNION  VETERANS 

Written  for  the  G.  A.  R.  Encampment 
held  in  San  Francisco  August  1903 


Welcome  !  Union  Veterans,  welcome  ! 

Welcome  to  our  college  town, 
We  have  heard  in  song  and  story 

Of  your  deeds  when  our  flag  was  down. 

How  you  fought  to  save  "old  glory" 
When  by  erring  sons  disgraced, 

Then  you  marched  to  save  the  nation — 
On  Freedom's  brow  a  crown  you  placed. 
32 


Welcome  !  Union  Veteran,  welcome  ! 

Welcome  to  this  sun-kissed  land, 
You  have  fought  to  save  the  Union — 

We  extend  a  welcome  hand. 

You  have  bravely  faced  the  danger — 
Have  heard  the  cannon's  deadly  roar; 

You  have  seen  your  comrades  falling — 
Their  gaze  fixed  on  heaven's  bright  shore. 

Welcome  !  Union  Veteran,  welcome  ! 

To  the  fairest  spot  on  earth  ; 
Thou  hast  made  the  home  of  freedom 

On  the  land  that  gave  me  birth. 

As  we  read  the  page  of  history — 

Of  Five  Forks,  Shiloh,  Vicksburg  too, 

We  pray  "God  bless  the  Union  soldier" — 
May  thy  days  be  long  and  troubles  few. 

Welcome  !  Union  Veteran,   welcome  ! 

Welcome,  boys  of  sixty  one, 
You  have  stood  the  storm  of  battle 

From  Appomatox  to  Bull  Run. 

As  we  read  of  fields  of  danger 

Where  you  marched  to  meet  the  foe — 

Bearing  Freedom's  flag  triumphant ; 
We  now  reap  what  you  did  sow. 

Welcome!  Union  Veteran,  welcome! 

Welcome  to  our  town,  so  gay — 
This  is  the  spot  the  poet  dreamed  of 

Where  "the  star  of  empire  wends  its  way." 


No  more  shall  your  order  meet  in  Berkeley, 
For  its  race  on  earth  is  nearly  run,  [us 

But  we'll  make  you  welcome  while  you're  with 
You  fighting  boys  of  sixty-one. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

Long  years  ago  men's  passions  were  rife 
And  both  sides  called  for  war — 

Political  tricksters  then  took  up  the  row 
And  fought  with  both  tongue  and  jaw. 

But  those  crafty  ones  didn't  rush  to  the  field 

Nor  arm  themselves  for  the  fray, 
But  left  the  fighting  to  be  done 
By  men  who  wore  blue  and  gray. 

Four  long  years  dread  war's  alarms 

Shook  our  country  to  the  core 
And  we  rejoiced,  both  North  and  South, 

When  those  terrible  days  were  o'er. 

Our  friends  felt  pleased  on  our  return, 

And  happy  was  the  day 
When  our  soldier  boys  came  marching  home 

And  took  off  the  blue  and  gray. 

Long  years  rolled  by — blue  and  gray  at  rest 

And  peace  had  long  held  reign 
When  Spain  commenced  her  dirty  tricks 

By  blowing  up  the  Maine. 


Again  the  bugle  sounded  war's  alarm — 

Our  boys  hastened  to  the  fray — 
No  one  asked  where  their  fathers  fought, 

Or  whether  they  wore  blue  or  gray. 

We  honor  the  men  who  wore  the  blue 

And  those  who  wore  the  gray, 
And  the  time  for  questioning  has  gone  past — 

On  what  side  did  you  fight  that  day  ? 

You  "walloped  us  sweet,  you  Southland  boys. 

And  we  gave  you  "Jessie"  too, 
For  American  boys  are  the  devil  to  fight  — 

Whether  wearing  the  gray  or  blue. 

Then  here's  to  the  gray  and  to  the  blue 

Who  fought  long  years  ago. 
And  on  many  a  southern  battle  field 

The  crimson  tide  did  flow. 

Those  days  are  past  and  gone,  comrades, 

Old   friendships  we'll  renew, 
And  we  dou't  care  a  "hang"  as  we  shake  hands 

Whether  you  wore  gray  or  blue. 

But  one  thing,  comrades,  let  us  all  stear  clear 

Whatever  else  we  may  do — 
Of  'political  sharps'  who  'shoot  off  their  mouth' 

About  loving  the  gray  and  the  blue. 

For  when  election  day  has  come  and  gone 
They  have  nothing  more  to  say —         [fought 

They  don't  give  a  'whoop  '  on  which  side  you 
Or  whether  you  wore  blue  or  gray. 

Ho 


THE  GOVERNMENT  MULE 

Have  you  read  the  sad  story  of  Charley  O'Toole 
Who  was  shot  by  the  heel  of  a  government  mule? 
He  was  the  best  scholar  in  our  village  school 
And  he  didn't  give  a  whoop  for  a  government 

mule. 

'Twas  down  at  the  fort  where  Ben  Butler  did  rule 
And  Charley  was  chief  chambermaid  to  a  gov 
ernment  mule. 
While  buckling  the  croupier,  this  dod-gasted 

old  mule 
Kicked  the  brains  galley  west  of  poor  Charley 

O'Toole. 
Oh  !  Charley,  my  darling,  why  was  you  such   a 

fool 

As  to  get  in  the  rear  of  a  government  mule. 
It  may  be  all  right  to  die  for  'old  glory,' 
But  to  die  by  a  mule  is  a  different  story. 
So,  comrades,  be  careful  and  make  it  a  rule 
To  keep  to  windward  of  a  government  mule. 
And  should  one  heave  in  sight,  be  steady  and 

cool 

And  avoid  the  sad  fate  of  poor  Charley  O'Toole. 
Blood  and  brains  mixed  together  lay  mixed  in 

a  pool 
And  its  all  that  was  left  of  poor  Charley  O'Toole. 

So  here  lies  the  body  of  Charley  O'Toole 
Who  was  hit  by  the  starboard  battery  of  a  gov 
ernment  mule. 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME 


'T  was  down  on  a  southern  streamlet 

Where  silver  waters  did  flow — 
On  one  side  camped  we  Yankees, 

On  the  other,  our  southern  foe. 
The  western  sun  was  setting 

And  right  was  drawing  near, 
The  pickets  paced  their  lonely  beats — 

Stout  hearts  that  had  no  fear. 
From  out  the  gathering  shades  of  night 

Came  the  music  of  a  band, 
And  a  cheer  rose  from  the  southland  boys 

At  tht-  sound  of  "Dixie  Land." 

The  challenge  was  accepted 

And  our  band  began  to  play— 
The  moon  rose  in  the  heavens 

And  the  scene  was  bright  as  day, 
But  all  the  world  seemed  gayer 

And  everything  looked  bright 
As  we  heard  "O!  say  can  you  see"  by  the 
day's  gray  dawn 

If  our  flag  be  still  in  sight  ? 

What  a  cheer  rose  from  Yankee  throats 
As  the  grand  old  hymn  was  played, 

But  our  southern  foes  soon  answered  us, 
To  show  they  were  not  dismaved; 


37 


And  clear  the  stirring  notes  we  heard 

Echoing  from  hill  and  crag, 
Of  that  well-known  air  the  Johnnies  loved — 

"Hurrah  for  our  Bonnie  Blue  Flag," 

The  cheer  scarce  died  from  rebel  throats 

Ere  our  band  tuned  up  again 
And  soon  there  floated  o'er  the  camp 

That  well-remembered  strain — 
A  song  we  sung  both  night  and  day, 

And  we  sang  with  true  devotion, 
And  Yankee  throats  yelled  loud  and  strong 

'  Columbia's  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean." 

Night  was  drawing  near — taps  close  at  hand, 

Both  bands  had  ceased  to  play, 
As  though  the  boys  had  gone  to  rest 

To  prepare  for  another  day; 
But  soon  there  arose  from  the  southern  camp, 

Echoing  from  earth  to  dome, 
That  tender  air  we  loved  so  well — 
That  good  old  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

Our  band  joined  in  with  the  southern  band 

In  the  song  we  loved  so  well, 
And  as  they  played  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home" 

Both  sides  began  to  yell. 
We  thought  of  home  and  mother,  too, 

As  determined  no  more  to  roam, 
And  both  sides  sang  when  the  music  ceased, 

H«-w  "Johnnie  Conies  Marching  Home." 


Lost  Poem  Deals  on  a  Live  Subject 


The  following  beautiful  poem  was  picked  up 
at  Berkeley  station.  The  owner  ma3r  gain  pos 
session  of  it  by  calling  at  the  office  of  the  Ex 
pressmen's  Union. 

Come  all  you  Berkeley  expressmen   and   list  to 
what  I  say, 

Don't  get  in  the  road  of  the  carmen  while  driv 
ing  on  Bancroft  \vay. 

For  if  you  do  you'll  have  a  smash  and  soon 
repent  the  day 

You  ever  had  the  impudence  to  drive  on  Ban 
croft  way. 

The  street  is  very  narrow — only  about  sixty 

feet  wide. 
And   the   carmen  want  the   middle  while   you 

can  take  the  side, 
But  look  out  when  they  come  "kiting  down" 

though  you  ma}7  not  hear  the  bell, 
For  if  you  don't  quickly  clear  the  track,  they'll 

knock  your  rig  to thunder. 

They  will  knock  3rou  silly  if  you  are  in  their 

way, 
And  if  you  commence  to  "kick,"  they  call  you 

a  "country  jay." 


No  matter  how  much  damage  done,  these  an 
gels  do  not  care, 

But  simply  shout,  "Oh,  close  your  trap"  and 
"get  the  hayseed  out  yer  hair" 

You  may  talk  about  free  country  and  all  that 
sort  of  rot, 

But,  boy,  be  careful,  take  my  advice,  don't  get 
the  carmen  hot, 

But  keep  your  weather-eye  lifted,  now  remem 
ber  what  I  say, 

And  clear  the  track  for  the  ding-a-ling  when 
driving  on  Bancroft  way. 


THE  BLOOMIN  CORONATION 

Much  sorrow  was  expressed  during  the 
summer  of  '03  when  one  of  Berkeley's 
most  distinguished  citizens  was  recalled 
to  his  native  land  to  assist  in  the  coro 
nation  of  King  Edward  VII.  Great  sor 
row  was  manifested  by  his  fellow  towns 
men,  and  a  thrill  of  joy  swept  over  the 
college  town  when  the  glad  news  was 
heralded  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  Berke 
ley  and  would  soon  be  with  us. 

The  Town  Trustees  ordered  the  poet- 
laureat  to  compose  some  verses  for  the 
joyful  occasion. 

What  is  this  good  news  that  we  hear 
As  we  pass  by  Berkeley  Station, 

That  Sammy  Wakeham  was  made  a  Lord 
At  the  bloomin  coronation. 

How  all  our  people  will  rejoice, 
And  shout  and  screach  and  roar 

When  Sammy  puts  his  bloomin  foot 
On  the  Bloomin  Yankee  shore. 

But  the  English  King  did  a  noble  deed 

When  a  Peer  of  Sam  he  did  make  um, 
And  now  his  cards  read  "werry  swell" — 
Houses  painted  by  Lord  Wakeham. 


ON  A  HOOK  AND  EYE 


I   won't  compete,  and  I'll  tell  you  why 

I  have  no  use  for  a  hook  or  an  eye. 

If  I  "bust  a  button,"  I  simply  grin 

Until  I  get  hold  of  a  safety  pin. 

A  fellow  would  be  in  a  terrible  mess 

If  he  had  a  woman  to  hook  his — dress. 

A  man  will  make  all  kinds  of  hitches 

Ere  asking  a  woman  to  button  his  breeches 

And  you  can  bet  as  sure  as  fate 

She'd  make  a  blunder  and  not  button 

straight. 

So  now  you  know  the  reason  why 
I  want  nothing  to  do  with  hook  or  eye. 
For  I  should  faint  I  do  confess 
If  a  woman  asked  me  to  hook  her  drtss. 


In  conclusion,  let  me  express  :he  hope 
that  my  readers  may  feel  as  much  pleas 
ure  in  perusing  this  little  gem  as  my 
printers  did  when  I  planked  down  the 
cash  to  pay  for  the  printing.  To  be  sure, 
I  had  formed  a  plan  to  "stand  them  off." 
But  the  other  night,  when  I  had  retired 
to  my  virtuous  couch,  and  while  sleeping 
in  childish  innocence,  1  had  a  fearful 
dream.  In  my  dream,  a  figure  with  clo- 


40 


ven  hoofs  and  horns  on  his  head  appeared 
at  my  bedside.  In  his  hand  he  held  a 
copy  of  this  book  and  opening  it  read  as 
follows — 

I  am  sorry  to  say,  sad  is  your  case, 
You'll  go  way  hack  to  the  other  place; 
On  such  sad  doings  we  must  frown 
As  swindling  the  people  of  Berkeley  town. 
But  one  thing  in  your  favor  I  will  say — 
You  did  not  forget  your  printer  to  pay; 
And  you  certainly  did  have  lots  of  fun 
While  your  silly  book  never  hurt  any  one. 

I  have  often  heard  of  the  printers' 
devil,  but  if  the  fellow  I  saw  in  my  dream 
is  a  sample  of  their  collecting  agent  I'll 
"ante  up"  without  a  visit  from  the  party 
of  the  first  part,  his  heirs,  assigns,  or 
any  of  his  relatives. 

J.  EDWARD  BOVD,  B.  B.  B. 
N.  B.     No  flowers. 


Photomount 
Pamphlet 

Binder 
Gaylord  Bros. 

Makers 
Stockton,  Calif. 

PAT.  IAN.  21.  1908 


I20c 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


7GG970 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


